


Claude, No

by rapunzariccia



Series: DGA [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>claude's an asshole and only mag seems to realise.<br/>>tfw ur drunk and have to pick up your drunker boyfriend and then have to sober up to the realisation that he used to suck dick for drugs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claude, No

**Author's Note:**

> I BLAME AMDAM EVERY DAY OF MY WAKING LIFE AND IT'S GORGEOUS  
> kick asher til he's down 2k15
> 
> also, babby's first porn. i'm so proud of myself

"i don’t get it."

the living room is a mess. there’s clothes strewn over the couch and the floor, a bra hanging from the door leading to the kitchen. several empty beer bottles and a half-empty wine bottle cover the coffee table, leaving only enough space for two large cartons of half eaten ice cream and two spoons jammed into each. the tv’s on but the volume turned way low. mag and volka are curled up on the couch together in their underwear, watching the latest male hot stuff parade around without his shirt on. they’re both giddy with alcohol and sugar. it’s a good night.

volka doesn’t tear her eyes from the screen. “hm?”  
"i don’t get it," mag repeats. "why he spends so much time with that - that _ass_.”  
"claude _again_? jesus wept, girl, give it a rest."  
"absolutely not!" she reaches for her wine glass, tops it up a little unsteadily, takes a gulp. she grabs her spoon with the other hand and jabs it viciously in volka’s direction. " _absolutely not_. he spends too much time with that little fucker. i hate them! i hate them together so much. you know,” she adds, voice dropping into what she probably assumes is a conspiratorial whisper. “he hasn’t told me outright, but it’s so fucking obvious that asher’s half in love with the shit. and that’s unfair on so many levels!”

volka is still intent on watching the almost-muted show and misses the way that mag - rather impressively - slams the rest of her wine, and the grimace that follows. it’s not terribly expensive stuff, but the drinks they’d had before opening the bottle mask the vinegraite taste.  
"yeah," she says, without conviction. it’s enough for mag, who keeps going.  
” _so_ unfair. i mean-” she misses the glass as she tries to refill, and slops red onto her leg. “fuck. look, it is just highly unfair that my boyfriend, my wonderful, sexy, _idiot_ boyfriend keeps going back to this - this little anonymous _slut_.”  
"i don’t think that’s accurate," vol says.  
"what?"  
"i don’t think claude gets enough to be a slut. they’re not like you."

this garners a shriek and a sharp slap to the thigh, which finally tears volka’s attention away from the tv and prompts a short-lived but fierce wrestle, only stopped when more wine slops out of mag’s glass and onto them both.  
"my panties," mag says without conviction as she looks over the damage. "damn, i’ll have to wash them. vol, your ball has popped loose, fix up, girl." she busies herself with the bottle and the glass as volka sorts herself out, and the two clink glasses before resuming their silent, judgemental watching of the tv.

twenty minutes later, mag’s phone buzzes on the table. it makes them both jump, and is nearly dropped into the now nearly-melted ice cream carton as she grabs for it.  
"ugh," she says, reading it. she hands it to volka to roll her eyes over.

_Mag, come and collect the drunk heap you call your boyfriend. Claude._

"asshole," she hisses as she stumbles to her feet, sways on the spot, and makes her way to the hall to pound on efrain’s door.

 

* * *

 

it’s a twenty minute drive to claude’s impressive house. mag has been persuaded to put on shorts and a shirt, but she refused point-blank to don her bra again. volka came with them as far as the university, where she got out to go ‘interrupt whatever furry bullshit morf’s dealing with right now’. efrain’s been wearing a patient, exasperated expression the entire drive. mag hasn’t shut up once. she’s going on about her thesis, of all things, as they pull up, when she goes suddenly, surlishly silent.

"did you want me to go in and get him?" efrain asks her. she stubbornly shakes her head and unclips herself from the seat.  
"just wait here."

efrain pretends not to see her half-fall out of the passenger side and disappear unsteadily up the drive to the front door.

 

* * *

 

 

claude has to physically drape asher’s arms around his girlfriend to make sure he stays upright. with mag trying hard not to sway, it’s a difficult challenge, but they somehow succeed. mag glares. claude glares back.  
"you’re not going to thank me?" they say mildly. this earns them only a fiercer look. mag looks as though she’s trying to squint her eyes out of existence. "actually, hold on a minute, i have something else for you to take back."

claude’s disappeared before she can think of anything witty to say, and she’s left with her arms around asher’s waist. she gives him a gentle squeeze, and he giggles - the grown man actually giggles quietly into her ear. she can’t help but grin and turn her head enough to press little sloppy kisses against his temple. they’re both giggling like dopey idiots when claude returns, and could quite happily have carried on that way unless they’d been interrupted with the disgusted noise. mag’s back to pure anger in a second.

"here," claude says, utterly unconcerned, and thrusts a slim box into her spare hand. it’s a dvd box, unmarked. she looks at it, then back at claude, suspicious. "have a good night. asher, don’t throw up in efrain’s car."  
"good night, claude," asher says, and giggles again. mag tries her hardest not to roll her eyes.

 

* * *

 

"you two are a disgrace," efrain remarks as they clamber into the back seat together. mag blows a raspberry at him. "i don’t even want to think about how much you’ve had to drink tonight. i’m not cleaning it up."  
"i’m not cleaning it up!" she parrots, and then laughs. she’s sober in comparison to asher, who can’t seem to operate his hands properly. mag has to buckle him in, and pinches his cheek affectionately. "get us home, cowboy."

efrain has to try very, very hard to ignore the two idiots in his car as they try to keep each other from doing stupid things. in mag’s case, this involves winding down the window - it’s freezing, suddenly - in case her sweetheart decides that he has in fact had too much to drink and needs to bring it back up. asher, meanwhile, keeps trying to pat mag’s face gently and tell her that she looks pretty. he keeps missing. it’s incredibly distracting and more than anything, not true. mag’s a mess. she always is after drinking with volka - the two are terrible influences on each other.

he persuades them not to stop for more booze, and manages to get them all home in one piece. he’s roped into helping asher walk the stairs to their flat - the kid reeks of something far more potent than just a couple of beers, but then, he did always like to overdo it just a little - and is reminded of the first night they met him. once inside, he swears himself off and lets asher sag against his girlfriend as he disappears back into his bedroom and locks the door. it’s the only safe place.

mag escorts asher to her room and shoves him unceremoniously onto the bed. “wait there,” she says, and grabs the bucket from the kitchen. he looks only moderately offended when she brings it back to him. “you’ve puked in my bed too many times for me to be unprepared,” she says, but he’s not listening anymore, too content with falling back onto her pillows and shutting his eyes. “really?” she says, exasperated, and groans out loud when she doesn’t get a response.

she spends the next few minutes being responsible, an incredible feat for her. she unbuttons asher’s shirt and pants, gets him under the covers and brings through the biggest glass of water she can find. she somehow manages to remember to brush her teeth and even thinks about washing her face when she remembers the dvd.

asher’s snoring when she returns to her room and doesn’t rouse when she bends to kiss his temple gently. the box claude gave her fell to the floor earlier, but hasn’t been stepped on. inside is an unmarked dvd. another glance at asher confirms that he won’t wake if she puts it on, and curious, she slips it into the dvd player.

she hits the tv on and grabs the remote, then unsteadily makes her own way to bed with the remote. the world’s spinning as she crawls under the covers, and she has to frown as she tries to focus on the picture.

it’s not professional camwork, that’s for sure. the picture’s shaky and the focus keeps sliding in and out, helped by the darkness of the picture, and only starts behaving when someone flicks a light on. it’s enough to blow the contrast up, and for a second there’s nothing but white light on the screen. mag frowns, trying to understand why claude would give her a dvd of nothing.

"…desperate," someone’s saying onscreen, and they laugh. it’s a cruel kind of laugh. the camera shakes again as whoever’s holding it waves their arms around, and mag is reaching for the remote to turn it off when a familiar, miserable face appears on screen for a moment. she glances to the sleeping man next to her to confirm, but she doesn’t need to. asher is standing on screen, surrounded by a few faces she doesn’t recognise, and looks awful. he’s obviously in the middle of his junkie days - he’s pale, there’s bags under his eyes that started to receed a few months ago, and he’s so skinny she wraps her own arms around herself.

there’s more speech, but mag isn’t concentrating on it, mind too fogged with the alcohol and trying to reign in her emotions at the sudden display of an iller asher on her tv. she’s almost so lost in her thoughts that she misses the way he reaches for his jacket and shrugs it off. almost.

attention fully stolen, she watches incredulously as asher slowly strips to the waist. someone on tape laughs. her eyes are drawn to his ribs, the way he tries to cover himself and make it seem casual.  
 _claude, what the fuck?_  
she’s forcing herself to pay attention now, and this time she hears the words.  
"on your knees, darling."  
she scoffs - this is absolutely not happening - but then the asher on screen slowly, miserably, sinks to his knees. he’s not making eye contact with anyone, not even the camera.  
 _what is this, amateur pornography hour?_

she thinks it to make herself laugh, to dispel the knot that’s been tightening in her stomach, but she abandons humour the second the cock comes into shot. it’s not even fully erect - someone’s made a poor attempt to get themselves ready - and it stops a couple of inches from asher’s face. he glances at it. mag catches the despair in his eyes, and her breath catches as he shifts position, leans forward, and licks a bold stripe along it. the man on camera makes a truly pathetic groan, shifts his stance, lets asher take his limp cock into his mouth and give it a teasing, gentle suck.

there’s blood in her ears. she can’t tear her eyes from the screen - can hear, faintly, asher snoring beside her, but she can’t connect that man with the one on screen just now. somewhere, claude is laughing themself to sleep. the asher on screen has his eyes closed, now, looking for all the world like he’s made peace with himself and another man’s dick. its owner is hard now, and asher is trying his best to slide the whole thing down his throat. it’s hard - the unfamiliar man is too tall and asher too intent on keeping his eyes closed for the arrangement to work - but he’s able at least to get a good half into his mouth and let the man fuck into him like it’s the last hole on earth. he coughs, and then looks like he might choke when the man doesn’t pull back immediately. when he does, there’s a string of precum connecting his tip to asher’s lips, which are slick with spit by now. there’s colour on his cheeks as well, and he opens his eyes to orient himself briefly - they’re glazed. mag can’t tell if it’s because of lust or a desperation for whatever drug he’s working for.

beside her, asher shifts, and she finally breaks her gaze to look guiltily at him. she’d had suspicions - they’d all had them, talked quietly behind his back to each other as he’d recovered and relapsed and gone through all sorts of hell to get to the way he was today - but he’d never mentioned anything. claude must have known from the beginning. claude must have been there to help hook these men up, must have been taking advantage of her boyfriend from day one. when she turns her gaze back to the screen, asher has resumed his desperate suckling. he’s being obscene about it in a way that mag understands well. the cock audibly  _pops_ out of his mouth and he groans as he guides it back to his mouth.  
"holy shit," one of the onlookers says. mag is inclined to agree with him. she loves asher, has seen him turned on and wanting and needy, but she has to really think to try and remember if she has ever seen him so into sex before, so unguilty about enjoying something.

she shifts to get better comfortable - she might hate herself in the morning, but for now she’s transfixed - and with horror realises that she’s grown wet watching her boyfriend suck a stranger off. she presses her thighs together, realises that it would be demeaning to touch herself and struggles with the decision when she hears unfaimilar groaning coming from the tv. she looks up in time to see asher frowning in concentration and for the stranger’s hands to hold his face hard against his cock as he comes, and her jaw drops when he steps back. asher - precious, naive, nervous asher - kneels on screen with spit and cum dripping from his lips. he swallows, lifts a hand to wipe his mouth, and refuses to look at the camera.

she’s impressed, and knows she shouldn’t be.


End file.
